


Sewer

by AmariT



Series: Wilderness Heart [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:51:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave, and you smell him before you see him. The odor is difficult to describe, but if you had to try you'd say it smells like being buried alive in the defect pile of a manure plant. This is a place that prides itself on manufacturing the worst odors, but sometimes the fetor comes out too godawful even for them, and that's the shit they keep adding to your pile. And somehow, the moment you catch a whiff, you know that stench is coming for you.</p><p>"Dave!" Jake yells from the door as he enters, rapidly waving his arm fully extended above his head. </p><p>"Oh, god."</p><p>-</p><p>Jake spends the day roaming the sewers. Dave takes him to get cleaned up. Stuff happens. I am the best at descriptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sewer

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Dangerous Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/439429) by [AmariT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT). 



> This is part 4 of a series (5 if you count Dangerous Game), but it stands on its own so you don't really need to read any of the previous stories to follow this one.

Your name is Dave Lalonde, and you smell him before you see him. The odor is difficult to describe, but if you had to try you'd say it smells like being buried alive in the defect pile of a manure plant. This is a place that prides itself on manufacturing the worst odors, but sometimes the fetor comes out too godawful even for them, and that's the shit they keep adding to your pile. And somehow, the moment you catch a whiff, you know that stench is coming for you.

"Dave!" Jake yells from the door as he enters, rapidly waving his arm fully extended above his head. 

"Oh, god," you utter, struck momentarily immobile at the sight of him. You're used to Jake being dirty. Dude is homeless, of course he's going to have a layer of grime on him. But this isn't dirty, this is diarrhea man come to life. This is fueling nightmares in which diarrhea man knows your name and wants to be intimate with you. 

"I have had the best day!" he continues as he bounds towards the counter. "I managed to get under the city!" 

Your manager, apparently drawn out of his office by the smell (so there is a way to get him to leave his desk) gives you a look so dirty that it might as well be Jake. Like most of the staff here, he fully blames you for Jake's regular visits, which is fair since it is entirely your fault. 

"Yeah, so I'm going to need the rest of the day off," you say.

"Just get him out of here."

You slide over the counter, demonstrating your cool ass skills, and stand between Jake's filth and the pristine laminate behind you. "Okay, Dude, two things," you say. "One, I'm going to need you to come with. Two, if I pass out, don't touch me. Just stand twenty feet away and wait for me to come to on my own." 

"What about my french fries?" he asks, tilting his head. He looks like a damn puppy that's been rolling in his own filth. 

"I will buy you a seven course gourmet dinner if you follow me right now."

"Oh, rightio!" He beams and obediently trails you out to the sidewalk.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, dude," you say as you leave the restaurant, "but somebody has to. You smell godawful. Just absolutely terrible."

He sniffs his shoulder with a small frown. "I don't smell that bad."

"You're right. You've long surpassed 'that bad.' You are a cherry red on the terrorist scale of smells and we should be finding shelter. Well, I should be finding shelter. It kind of defeats the point if I take the terrorist threat into my shelter with me." 

He grins. "Sounds to me like you've just gotten weak. Is your cushy life poisoning you?" 

"My cushy life is nothing more or less than a continual fantasy of lying on a cloud. It is exactly as it should be."

"You should come with me under the street tomorrow. I'll toughen you up."

"Yeah," you laugh, "there's no way in hell that's happening."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" he exclaims, throwing his arms into the air dramatically.

"With my sense of smell," you say. "i.e. gone forever." 

You wait for a lull in traffic and then jog across the street to the entranceway to your campus. When you turn back to look at Jake, he's still standing on the other side of the street with his arms crossed.

"What are you doing?" you ask. 

"There's no walking man."

"What?"

He points at a walk signal half a block away. 

"What?" you repeat. "Oh, come on. There aren't any cars."

"I have been very strictly told to never cross the street without a walking man." 

"You've got to be kidding me," you say. "You'll spend all day tromping around in a sewer but you won't cross a street without a walk signal?"

"That is an adventure; this is a matter of safety," he insists. "I also enjoy swimming, but I don't punch sharks." 

"That's hardly a reasonable comparison. That's like if I just told you you should try some delicious almonds and you said no thank you, elderberries are poisonous."

He continues standing there stubbornly.

"Fine," you say, "go cross at the walk signal and then join me here." 

He happily trots half a block to the walk signal, sprints across the street as soon as the walking man appears, and then trots back to you.

"And that didn't feel at all like a waste of time?" you ask.

He raises his nose snottily into the air. "I like to think of it as exploring more ground." 

"Shit, man, that's true. There might have been a previously undiscovered Incan temple on that edge of the block." 

"If there was, I certainly wouldn't have shared my newly discovered riches with you." 

You shrug. "My loss." Turning, you lead him into the campus. "Who told you to only cross the street when there's a walking man, anyway? The dorks rider?" you ask, mimicking the way he pronounced the oft mentioned name. You assume this is another homeless guy he knows. 

"Dirk Strider, yes," he says, his head swiveling this way and that, taking in your surroundings. They're not nearly as exciting as his rapidly turning head is making them out to be. There's a small fountain right by the entrance way, but otherwise it's just pathways and brick buildings, with limited greenery. 

"I thought this guy was your sworn nemesis," you say.

"He's helpful at times. Is this a university?"

"Yeah." You nod your head towards a nearby building. "You can shower at my dorm."

His face lights up. "Do you have public showers? Can I hit people in the ass with twisted up wet towels?" 

"Yes, and please, god, don't do that. Don't even look at anyone else in the showers." 

"That's no fun. Will there be a panty raid later?"

"No. Jegus. Where are you getting your information, terrible 80's movies?" 

"Well, I certainly wouldn't say any of the movies I've seen are terrible." He waves across the quad at a girl who quickly turns and walks the other way. 

"Just act like your closest approximation to a normal person and try to avoid drawing attention to yourself." You notice that people are already staring your way and remember that Jake is basically a walking, talking toilet right now. "More than necessary," you finish. 

You stop at the side door to your dormitory and give him a once-over. Most of the worst slop has dripped off of him already so he's not leaving too much of a trail. Still. "Try not to touch anything. We're not far from the first floor bathroom, but I don't want you spreading your filth around."

"Oh, I'm not that gicky," he says, rolling his eyes. 

"You are the very definition of gicky," you reply. "Actually, I have no idea what the definition of gicky is, but I'm certain that if I opened a dictionary right now, your name would be listed as a synonym." 

You lead him to the bathroom, luckily without running into anyone in the hallway, and direct him into a stall. Turning on the water, you say, "Just stand under this in your clothes for now and try to rinse as much of that stuff off of you as you can." Jake steps under the spray willingly enough, so you assume he's familiar with showers. It's probably safe to leave him on his own for a few minutes. "I'll be right back with soap." 

"Okay!" he answers. You close the stall's curtain and head to the closest stairwell. You lope up the steps to the third floor, passing John on your way. 

"What's your hurry?" he calls after you. 

You pause at the third floor door. "I've got a dirty homeless man in the downstairs bathroom. I probably shouldn't leave him alone too long."

"What?!" he exclaims.

"To be fair, he's a good looking dirty homeless man. Very fuckable." 

"Ew, God, no. What is wrong with you?" You laugh as you open the door, and he yells, "You have the worst taste in men." 

Your room is empty when you arrive. You're never certain where your roommate goes, but hopefully he won't return any time soon. You're not even certain the asshole sleeps.

You grab your shower gear and some clothes and return to the first floor bathroom. Jake is bouncing on his toes waiting for you when you arrive. He grins as soon as you open the curtain. "Okay, take off your clothes and..." He starts stripping before you even finish your sentence, peeling his wet t-shirt off over his head. Sweet mother of Lincoln, he's muscular. The muscles are practically carved into his body, which you'd enjoy much more if he didn't also have a lot of other stuff carved into it.

"Did you get into a fight with a helicopter?" you ask as he starts unbuttoning his fly. 

"No, why?" He glances at you with his thumbs hooked into the waistline of his jeans. 

"The scars, dude. It looks like you lost a fight with a whirlwind of metal blades."

"I'll have you know that scars are indicators of battles won!" he exclaims indignantly. "Battles lost are marked by bones." 

"Okay, calm your tits," you say, holding up your hands. "I got it. I'm just asking where they came from." 

"Oh." He looks down at himself. "Mostly cats. I hate cats."

"A cat did that?" you ask dubiously, pointing at a jagged mound of scar tissue circling his shoulder. 

"Yep. Big un'. Protecting her kits, the blasted molly." He points at some other scars. "These ones are from blades though." 

"Seriously?" You lean closer to inspect the thin white lines left on his dark skin. They're the the least noticeable scars in his varied collection. "What kind?"

"Swords!" You step back as he wildly re-enacts what must have been one hell of a knife fight. He slips and falls back into the corner of the shower with an "oof!"

"Dude, shower," you say, placing the shower kit by his feet. "Before you kill yourself." He pushes himself to back to his feet, grin still in place, and you point at the bottles. "Soap. Shampoo. Wash as thoroughly as you think necessary, and then repeat that like ten times."

"Okie doodle!" he says, shedding his pants and kicking them to the side. 

You give him one more once-over, then close the curtain and sit on the bench beside the shower to wait.


End file.
